If Crow comes this way, in a hurry, he’s gonna make a lot of noise. Plenty of time for me to get out front to Harry and the car.
I wait, look at my watch. Thirty seconds since I hit the buzzer, and nothing.
There’s no way he could have seen me. I step out of the darkness, head down the walkway toward the front. A few feet past the fence, through a low three-foot gate, and Harry sees me. He’s a silhouette in the car. He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head. No action out front.
I know the front door is locked, so I head toward the back stairs. I climb them quietly, two at a time, taking the wooden railing, avoiding the splinters, both hands, to the landing at the top. There’s no light here, just a weather-beaten wooden door, single pane of glass on top. Inside through the glass I can see the corridor dimly lit, one door on the right, an apartment belonging to somebody else on the other side.
I try the outside door. It’s unlocked. I step inside, close it behind me. Never having come this way, I’m not exactly sure where the door to Crow’s room is. I’m thinking down the hall and around the corner to the left. I tiptoe, lightly as I can, not letting my heels hit the threadbare carpet.
Sounds of a television waft up from somewhere in the distance, muted by wails and closed doors, game-show noise, banter and applause, nothing I can make out. Then I realize the channel’s in Spanish.
I make my way to the corner and peek around the edge of the wall. Crow’s door is about fifteen feet down the hall. I’m wondering whether I should just knock. There’s no way out, unless he decides to take a window, use some sheets, or has one of those rope ladders they use for fires, which I doubt. The last time I was here he wasn’t prepared for much of anything, least of all Murphy.
If he comes out another way Harry’s gonna see him, though it would take me a few seconds to get to the street.
I work my way to the door, stop and put an ear to it. The noise from the television somewhere downstairs is making it difficult to hear.
¡Fantástico! ¡Excelente! Applause and tinny music, a brass horn picks up the beat.
I press my head a little closer to the door, and as I do my shoulder rubs against it. There’s a click, and the door opens, not a crack or a sliver, but slowly, everything but squeaking hinges. It rolls with gravity to the lowest point, until I find myself standing, centered in the open frame, backlit by the light in the hall. It’s too late to move. All I can do is hope Crow isn’t inside with a gun pointed in my direction.
There’s no movement inside, the room shielded in darkness, and no sound.
It looks as though Crow took a stroll. Probably ran to get beer, and didn’t catch the latch on the way out.
I can’t see much of the apartment, only with the light from the hall and what is directly in front of the door. I step inside and close it.
Now the only light is what filters in from one of the windows, a streetlamp half a block down, and a splinter of illumination from under a door off to my left. I’m guessing a night-light in the bathroom, what I could see from the small window outside.
I don’t have a flashlight, and I don’t dare turn on the lights. If Crow’s out walking and comes back, he’ll see the windows lit up and disappear.
I check the door, to make sure it’s locked behind me. It’s a tricky latch, what you get in a flophouse. I have to jiggle the knob a bit to get it to snap into place. I can feel with my hands the twist of a deadbolt above the knob. For some reason, Crow didn’t use it. I have a feeling he didn’t go far.
I turn a hundred and eighty degrees, shuffle away from the door, hands out in front of me, blind man, trying to give my eyes time to adjust. Part of the room I can make out. The folding card table under the window. I kick something on the floor. It skids across the uncarpeted surface. The tinny sound as it hits the card-table leg gives it away; an empty beer can. For a moment I just stand in one place, trying to get my bearings.
Off to my right would be the sleeper sofa, opened out so that it takes up a good part of the room. I can’t see this, just make out one edge, the bottom corner of the bed, what looks like a rumpled blanket in the shadows. I take a wide berth to my left to avoid tripping over the bed.
My best shot is the bathroom door. If I open it, the night-light inside should give me enough to see. I shuffle toward the shaft of dim light escaping from under the crack. Kick a cardboard plate from a TV dinner. Finally I reach the door, find the knob and turn it, and open the door.
Inside it’s not brightly lit, but I can see. A shower curtain is drawn around the tub, pushed out at the tap end by something inside, dark, pushing out the curtain in this area.
I study it for a second, small dark form, size of a cat, dark shadows through the translucent curtain.
I step inside, take the curtain, throw it back sliding on its rings.
Jason Crow is stretched out in the tub, his unblinking eyes looking straight at me, not moving when I do. His feet still wrapped in their Reeboks are propped up on the tap-end edge of the tub, heels down, toes up. His head is against the other.
Crow’s right hand is drawn across his upper body reaching for something, but not quite making it. A syringe stuck in his left forearm, plunger fully depressed, a short bungee cord, hooks on each end, lying in the bottom of the tub, just beneath his left arm.
I move to the head of the tub, try his neck, the pumped-out trail of the carotid below his left ear. The few random hairs of a beard still on his chin. There’s no pulse, and the skin is cool.
I rise slowly, standing straight, staring down at the lifeless form in the tub. There is no doubt that Jason Crow was part of this world’s underbelly. From everything I’d seen and read, he’d drifted in that direction most of his adult life. Nothing in his sorry existence could be said to be a part of any design, certainly not his own. Still, I can’t help but wonder that only hours earlier he had stumbled out of his bed, looked out the window, taking in the sunshine beyond the salt-filmed pane of glass as his day began, never entertaining a clue that this would be his last.
I turn from the tub and catch my own face in the mirror over the sink. It is tired, looking like it belongs to someone I don’t know. I am long past a five o’clock shadow. Dark hair mussed, and eyes with pouches under them, abysses of stress and sleep deprivation.
Jonah’s in the hospital, and I’m now back to square one. I no longer have a witness to connect Jessica to the Mexican drug dealer Ontaveroz. My theory of defense is evaporating like spit on a hot sidewalk.
There’s a strong urge to splash a little water on my face as I lean over the sink, but I suppress it. This is now a crime scene, and my fingerprints are already far too prominent.
My first thought: Call Floyd Avery. Maybe he can cut some slack with the city PD. Otherwise I’m going to be answering questions all night, with a court call at nine in the morning.
I detach my gaze from the mirror, turn to leave the bathroom. That’s when I see him. Shaft of light from the open door that was behind me. Sprawled on the foldout bed, staring open-eyed at the ceiling, the hilt and handle of a Bowie knife the size of a meat cleaver sticking out of his chest—Joaquin Murphy.
Crow could never have gotten the better of him, of that I am convinced. But I don’t share this with the cops. I am sitting on a small wooden bench out on the front porch.
There are cops out front stringing yellow tape on sticks at the edge of the strip of lawn, mostly weeds, that borders the sidewalk in front of the house.
A van, Channel 2, has just pulled up, getting their satellite antenna up.
Avery and Harry standing close by along with some detective from city homicide. They are crowded under one of the naked lightbulbs on the front porch, close enough to converse with me, but give me some distance.
“This was a friend? This guy Murphy?” says the detective.
“He was an investigator
. We hired him a couple of months ago,” says Harry.
“In what capacity? What was the nature of the work?”
“That’s privileged,” I cut in.
The cop finally turns to look at me, sitting on the bench.
“And what brought you over here?” He’s got his notebook open, looking at me.
When I don’t answer, “Is that privileged, too?”
Avery whispers in his ear, the guy comes back to me. “You the lawyer in the Suade thing? Saw it on TV,” he says. “Is that what this was about?”
“I can only tell you we had Crow under subpoena. He was a possible witness, that’s all.”
“When’s the last time you talked to this investigator, Murphy?”
“Two days ago.”
“What did you talk about?”
I give him eyebrows and a smirk.
“I tried to call him a couple of times today but couldn’t reach him, earlier in the day.”
“We know. We saw his pager. Your number on it,” says Avery. “It was still on his belt upstairs.”
This gives me pause to think. Who else has seen this?
“Let’s get back to what brought you over here,” says city homicide.
“I told you. Three times. Jason Crow was supposed to be in court this morning. He was under subpoena. He never showed up. I came over to find out why.”
“And you let yourself into his apartment?”
“The back door wasn’t locked. The door to his apartment was locked, but the catch didn’t work.”
“Convenient.”
“Maybe, but that’s what happened.”
“I could take you in for breaking and entering,” he says.
“And by tomorrow I’d be out. And Lieutenant Avery there would be in front of Judge Peltro downtown explaining why I’m not in court in the morning.”
Avery gives him a look as if this might not be wise.
“Let’s go over it once more,” says the detective.
I roll my eyes. “As I said, I rang the doorbell. Nobody answered. I tried the back stairs. The door was unlocked. The latch on Crow’s door didn’t catch. When I touched it, the door opened.”
“How did you touch it?”
“I was listening at the door.”
“What were you listening for?”
“To see if he was inside. If I heard voices. I don’t know. Maybe he was asleep, didn’t hear the bell.”
“I heard the buzzer,” he says. “Nobody’s gonna sleep through that—unless he’s dead.”
“You think I knew they were inside?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
“This is getting nowhere.”
“I still haven’t heard what your investigator was doing here,” he says. “You already served Crow, you say?”
“Right. Two days ago.”
“Then why come back?”
“Because he didn’t show up in court.”
“You knew that?”
“Right.”
“But your investigator didn’t. Was he in court today?”
Harry and I exchange looks. Avery watching. He knows.
“No.”
“Then how could he know the witness failed to appear?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you don’t know why he was here?”
“No.”
“Tell me again how you got inside the apartment.”
“I told you. I had my ear pressed to the door. I touched it accidentally with my shoulder, and it opened.”
“Just like that?”
“You don’t believe me, have your forensics people check it.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“I went in. I found the bodies. I called Lieutenant Avery because I had his number. He called you. I went outside, sat in the car and waited. You showed up. That’s everything I know.”
He looks at his notes. “You say Crow was served two days ago.”
“That’s right.”
“And who did that? The serving of process,” he says.
“Mr. Murphy.”
“Were you with him?” He takes a stab in the dark. Gets lucky.
“Yes.”
His eyes light up. “So you talked to Crow at that time?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes maybe.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I think I’m gonna treat my partner like a client,” says Harry. “I’m going to advise him not to say anything more.”
“You are?” says the cop. “You were sitting out front in the car. Accessory to whatever we find here. I suppose you have to be in court in the morning as well?”
Harry nods.
“Now, what did you talk about?” He turns back to me.
“Murphy handed him a subpoena, and we told him to be in court.”
“That took ten minutes?” he says.
“It was a slow conversation. It took Crow a while to understand the document,” I tell him.
The cop looks, smiles, his face flushed, fed with enough bullshit for one night. “So now you’re gonna tell me you were in there giving him legal advice?”
I nod. “Yeah. He was on parole. Wanted to know what the effect was.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him if he didn’t show up, I’d call his parole officer.”
“Crow was gonna be a witness in the Hale case?”
“It was a possibility.” No doubt they’ve already found the subpoena with the caption on it. So this is no secret.
“What was he gonna testify about?”
Avery’s all ears.
“You don’t really expect me to tell you, do you? It’s been a long day,” I tell the cop.
“It’s likely to get longer.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be discussing Mr. Crow’s testimony.”
“If there’s a coroner’s inquest you may have to,” he says.
“We can talk about that if it happens.”
He fumes, a long exasperated sigh, studies me with eyes buried deep behind puffy cheeks, like he’s deciding whether to haul my ass in or not.
“It’s privileged information,” I tell him. “It goes to a theory of defense. That’s all you have to know. You know as well as I do that if you force the issue, you’re only going to get slapped down by the trial judge.”
“We know Crow knew Jessica Hale,” says Avery. “Does it have to do with their relationship? You can tell us that much?”
“No. I can’t.”
The homicide detective’s getting angry. Red face over a tie too tight around the neck. Avery takes him by the arm, leads him off to one side. They whisper for a few seconds. Nothing I can hear.
The problem is the state already has a good idea where we’re trying to go with our defense. Our argument on the pretrial motion clued Ryan in as to the theory on Ontaveroz. The fear now is that if he finds out the details, discovers that Crow was my best evidence on this theory, he’ll know my case is on the rocks. Ryan will race to the finish line, rest his case and turn to me, a sorry sight, a lawyer with nothing to say.
As I see it now, there are two possibilities. I can turn up the two federal agents, assuming that’s who they were. On that score, my only link, Murphy, is now dead.
The second alternative would please Jonah much more. I can find Jessica, and with her, the little girl Amanda. Maybe I get Jessica to testify about her past, tell the jury about Ontaveroz in a persuasive way, which is not likely, short of applying implements of pain. Unless we can do one or the other, our case for an acquittal is about to hit a wall. It may be that our best chan
ce is now a verdict on a reduced charge.
Over in the far corner the homicide dick gives up a big sigh, shrugs. Apparently whatever the argument, Avery’s won it. They wander back over from the other side of the porch.
“We’re not trying to make a problem here,” says the detective. “What it looks like to me, your investigator was on the job. Came by at the wrong time. Caught Crow getting ready to put the needle in his arm. Crow panicked, they fought for the knife. Crow found a place to plant it. You could help us tie up the loose ends,” he says.
“That’s how you see it?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got at least one problem,” I tell him.
“What’s that?”
“The fact that Crow had no history shooting up heroin. Cocaine, maybe.”
“How do you know that?”
“Check his arms. Between his toes. I doubt you’re going to find any needle tracks. Besides, he was on parole. He was probably being screened for drugs,” I tell him. “I’ll bet you a month’s pay he never shot up heroin.”
“So who stuck the needle in his arm, your friend Murphy?”
“No.”
“You figure Crow killed him, though?”
I give him a shrug as if I’m not sure.
“So what do you think?” says Avery.
I look at my watch. I yawn. “I think it’s getting late.”
Before they can say another word, the screen door opens and one of the evidence techs steps out onto the porch. He takes a deep breath, two hands on the railing, leans over and barfs all over the lawn. The strobes from the TV camera catching it all. Must be a rookie.
The guy straightens up, out of breath, sucks in some air, and wipes his chin with the cuff of his jacket.
“Last thing you need, contaminate the scene,” he says. “Smells like somebody up there killed a cat,” he says. “Last month.”
The Attorney Page 26